Left Alone
by Queen Edmund Pevensie
Summary: John Winchester starts leaving his boys alone when Dean is eight. But when one hunt shakes him up pretty bad, he is forced to wonder how this will affect his still little boys.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Weechesters. All shades of the very beautiful rainbow of Dean Winchester's emotions. And a somewhat sympathetic view of John. Dean is eight, Sam is four. **

**Disclaimer: I do not now, nor have I ever owned Supernatural, the CW, or Sam and Dean Winchester. Sorry.  
**

**Left Alone ****  
**

John started leaving the boys alone when Dean turned eight. Dean had a good head on his shoulders for the most part and Sam listened to Dean better than John anyway.

Besides, Dean looked after Sam no matter who he put in charge of them. Every single hunter or babysitter told him so. "Dean's a good kid. Looks out for his brother."

So when he left Dean alone now, the only difference was that there wouldn't be anyone to look out for Dean, because somehow, even at eight, the kid had devoted his entire existence to keeping Sammy safe. It worried John a little that no one would be there to make sure Dean ate or slept, but it was always only for a few days. He assured himself that Dean was at least smart enough to know he was no good to Sam if he was tired and hungry, and he'd be home soon if he didn't.

John ruffled Sam's hair and straightened up.

"Where you goin'?" asked Sam. John sighed. He wanted so much to tell him the truth, but Dean had made him promise not to tell.

"Work," answered Dean for John. It wasn't a lie, really.

"We moving again?" asked Sam, looking a little crestfallen.

Dean looked up at John for some sort of cue. John sighed and knelt back down at Sam's eye level. "I don't know yet," he said seriously. "I haven't decided. Probably."

Sammy sighed. "Why do we move so much?"

John looked to Dean this time for a cue. "The job, Sammy," said Dean. "Dad's job." Sam sighed again, but he accepted Dean's answer for the time being.

"All right, Dean, you know the rules," said John, standing back up.

"Yes, sir," said Dean. "Don't answer the door, don't answer the phone. Call Uncle Bobby if anything goes wrong."

"And?" pressed John, but Dean frowned stubbornly in his ever present mission to keep Sam from the nightmares hiding in the dark. John wasn't in the mood. "Dean?"

"Go play, Sammy," said Dean.

"But Dean –" he protested. Dean fixed him with a long, stern look. Sam sighed and turned. Dean watched him until he was sure Sam would eavesdrop.

"Dean?" asked John again.

With a backwards glance at Sam, Dean checked off all of his instructions aloud. "Check the salt lines before I go to bed," he recited, like the good little soldier John knew he was. "Anything tries to get in, shoot first, ask question later."

"Good boy," praised John. Dean allowed himself a little smile. "Look after your brother. I'll be home in a few days."

"Yes, sir," said Dean. "I always look out for him."

After John left, locking the motel door behind him, the Impala revving away, four-year-old Sam ran up to his brother. "Dad's gone now, Dean," he said. "Come play."

"I gotta get dinner ready, Sammy," said Dean, pushing past his brother lightly.

Sam pouted and looked at him with those puppy dog eyes of his. "Please?" he asked, holding up a little, green army man.

Dean smiled and took it from him. "Fine," muttered Dean. "Just for a little, but you don't start complaining when you're hungry."

Sam beamed up at him and together they sat on the beds playing army men. Sam always insisted that the little toy soldiers fought monsters. Dean always told Sam the same thing when he suggested it: monsters were bad; they hurt people, why would we fight them? And Sam, born hunter without even realizing it, always answered, "Cuz to save people, Dean."

Dean would look at him then, amidst their playing and say very seriously, no longer thinking of their game, "What if they hurt _you_, Sammy?"

Usually, Sam would just shrug. Innocent little Sammy didn't _really _believe in monsters, so the monsters couldn't get him. Only, Dean knew better, and the idea of playing army men wasn't very appealing any more.

This time though, when Dean asked what would happen if the monsters got him, Sam looked at him like he was crazy. "They won't get me, Dean," he said.

Dean frowned. "They might," said Dean. _They got Mom,_ he added in his head.

"No they won't, Dean," he repeated. "You wouldn't let them."

Dean couldn't help but smile. "That's for sure."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "You would…rip their heads off or somethin'," said Sam simply, not paying any attention to the face Dean made.

Dean jumped up. "Hungry, Sam?" he asked. Sam shook his head. "Too bad. I'm making dinner now."

"Okay."

"What do you want?"

"sghettios."

And Dean left Sam to his army men and his imaginary hunt, because he couldn't bear the thought Sammy with really monsters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Not only do I not claim to own Supernatural, I don't claim to know anything either. And when I say "anything," I mean anything. **

**Left Alone **

John pulled the Impala up to the house. He shut the motor off and stared at it for a while, still trying to reassure himself that his boys would be all right. He could trust Dean. He could look out for the both of them.

Besides, there was nothing special about this job. A rumor of haunting, is all. Simple, routine. Go in, find out what you're dealing with, get out, burn the bones. Go back, just to check.

Then, John could get back to his boys, who would be there, waiting for him. Like the good little soldiers they were becoming.

He read over the report one last time before he fished out his badge. Single father, traveled a lot, two sons, died on the job about a week ago. No apparent cause of death, it seemed. No witnesses. Nothing. Just a lifeless body.

They said it was a heart attack, but John had been to the coroners that morning. No real reason his heart should have given out. None at all. No one could explain it, but it looked as if the man had died from malnourishment, but that's not what they told his sister, because that didn't made less sense than an inexplicable heart attack. Besides, John already had a pattern.

He knocked on the door. A woman in her mid-thirties opened the door. "FBI," said John.

"I don't understand," she said. "My brother had a heart attack."

"Yes, well," said John, clearing his throat. "Just procedure."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "No, no one would have wanted to hurt him." She ran a hand through her hair. "Well, except me."

John raised an eyebrow. "Why's that?"

She laughed. "I'm kidding," she clarified. "But he worked himself too hard. That's all. He was always working. Too hard, too long, too far from home." She shrugged. "I didn't mind watching the boys," she said. "But they missed him."

John smiled over at them sadly. They were playing with legos over in the other room.

"Do you have kids?" she asked politely, following his glance. John nodded.

"Two boys," he said. "Eight and four." John cleared his throat. "What did your brother do, exactly? For a living?"

"Developer," she answered. "Died while he was looking at the place. She looked up at John. "Why are the Feds involved, anyway?"

John smiled sympathetically. "Well, there's a connection."

"A connection?" she asked incredulously. "You think Arthur was murdered?"

"Something like that."

John Winchester, flashlight in one hand, EMF-reader in the other, gun tucked away, filled with salt-rounds, made his way slowly through the dimly lit hallways of the dilapidated house, waiting for anything that might be just a little supernatural.

It wasn't hard. The EMF was all over the place, enough for John to be sure there was definitely a ghost in the house, a super pissed ghost. So when the temperature dropped so low he could see his breath and his flashlight flickered, he put them both away and grabbed his gun.

The ghost shimmered into sight and John almost dropped his gun. His hands were shaking so much that he couldn't aim properly. Far too much for a seasoned hunter.

"You left us," the ghost said. The ghost of a boy, twelve-years-old at the most. "You were gone."

Next to him, another little boy, only six or seven, grabbed his hand. Brothers. "We were alone. How could you?" the older one asked.

John felt his knees begin to weaken. He couldn't focus, but he cocked his gun and shot blindly.

"Danny!" screamed one of the boys and John felt his consciousness slowly ebb back into him.

He didn't look back all the way back to the motel.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: The established phone code: 1x18 (Something Wicked). There are other things I wanted to say, but I've got four minutes until Supernatural comes on, so I won't waste any more time. **

**Disclaimer: I would say that if I was a writer on Supernatural, I wouldn't be here, but that's a lie. I would come here more.  
**

**Left Alone   
**

It was late when the phone rang. Dean already put Sam to bed. Hours ago. Dean couldn't sleep. He had tried, but it seemed like tonight, sleep wouldn't be reached. So he just sat on the edge of the bed watching Sammy sleep.

The ringing was loud and harsh, but other than plotting to kill the caller if he woke Sammy, Dean ignored it.

It only rang once. _Dad_, thought Dean, getting up, just as the phone rang again.

He picked up. "Dad?" he asked.

"Hi, Dean," he said. Even over the phone, Dean knew something wasn't okay. Something was wrong.

"Dad, are you okay?" asked Dean anxiously. "You're not hurt right?"

"No," said John softly. "Nothing like that. Just called to make sure you were okay?"

"Yeah, Dad," said Dean suspiciously. This was only the second night that John had been away. He'd left them alone longer than that without calling for days. "Me and Sam are okay."

"He's asleep?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Dean, not noticing that Sam had climbed out of bed and was standing next to Dean. He tugged on Dean's pajama sleeve. "Or not. He's awake now." He looked down at Sam. "It's Dad, Sam. Wanna say goodnight?"

Sam grabbed at the phone, but it was out of his reach in Dean's hands. "Hey, Dad," said Dean, holding up his hand for Sam to wait. "I'm gonna put Sammy on."

He handed him the pone. Sam held it in his right hand and held Dean's with his left. "Hi, Dad," he said. Dean couldn't hear his father's answer, but Sam looked up at Dean with his little puppy dog eyes. "I'm scared, Dad." Another pause, but Dean didn't try to hear what John told Sam, only straining his ears, to hear whatever it was making Sam scared, and how to make him feel safe.

"The monsters, Dad," answered Sammy, and Dean's heart stopped for a minute. He thought he knew one of two directions that this conversation could go. _Don't tell him, Dad. Please, he's only four, _begged Dean silently.

And before John had chance to answer, Dean grabbed the phone from Sam.

"Hey!" Sam protested. "Give! I amn't done!"

Dean held the receiver in his hand for a couple more seconds. He heard John calling his name, but Dean just wanted to hang up, put Sammy to bed and maybe grab a few hours of sleep.

But John's voice called him from the receiver. "Put your brother on the phone, Dean," he said, and Dean, being the consenting little soldier he was, shoved the receiver at his brother, a little more roughly than he intended to, and sat down , wrestling with his desire to protect Sam and his promise to listen to his father.

After a little while of a conversation Dean wasn't following, Sam handed the phone back. "Say goodnight," he said, climbing up and sitting on Dean's lap.

Dean held his brother close. "Goodnight, Dad," he said.

"There aren't any…?" started John cautiously.

"No, sir," said Dean quietly.

Dean heard John sigh through the phone. "I didn't tell him, Dean," John assured him. Dean let go of a breath hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Thanks," he said.

"We have to tell him sometime, Dean," said John reasonably.

"I know," he replied sadly.

"You can't protect him from everything, Dean," said John. "Especially if he's going to be a hunter."

"I know."

_Still though, _thought John, because it seemed a little ridiculous at this point to tell Dean to look after his brother. _It's good of you to look out for him. _

"Dean," said John aloud. Dean didn't answer, as Sam rested his head against Dean's shoulder. He was too busy watching him precious baby brother drift off to sleep. "I promise I'll be home soon."

"I know, Dad," said Dean. "Goodnight. Sammy fell asleep again."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This is my only "Sam" chapter, so I simplified my writing even more than usual to get it to seem more like a kids voice. Still third person. Scared Sam, protective Dean. I toyed with the idea of Sam having premonitions every once and a while without even realizing it at a very young age, but that didn't happen when I wrote it. **

**Disclaimer: Although I wish to every single god (or God) that has ever appeared in this show that I could do what I please with these characters, I can't. At least, not permenantly. Sam, at least, will be relieved, because I torture him so. **

**Also, as an addition to my general disclaimer, actual episodes I got ideas from: 1x01 1x04 3x07. Also, if you recognize anything in here that doesn't appear in this disclaimer, it probably belongs to you. Sometimes (and by sometmes, I mean all the time) I am influenced by little things in other peoples brilliant fics and incorporate details into my own. Sorry. Or your welcome. Which ever. **

**Left Alone**

Sam woke up suddenly. He rubbed his eyes groggily. What woke him up? Sam couldn't remember, but looking around the motel, he was suddenly gripped with such terror that he started to cry. He wanted to get out of bed to wake Dean, but he couldn't move, and besides, Dean wouldn't want Sam to bother him so late at nighttime.

So instead, he just sat up in bed, sobbing from a nightmare he could remember, knowing it was vivid and there were monsters. And they were chasing Dean. And Dean was running, running fast. Not away from something, but towards something. Towards the monster? No. Why would he do something like that? He was running towards Sam! And so was something else. The monster? It didn't look like a monster, just a person. But then why was Sam so afraid of him?

He didn't know, but he knew that Dean would protect him. The monster came closer to Sam. Sam whimpered. Where was Dean? Run faster, faster. He called out his brother's name, and Dean called back, "It's all right, Sam." But the monster was closer now it was so close he could feel its breath on his face. He called for Dean again.

And suddenly he was in Dean's arms. Except the monster didn't seem to like being interrupted, so Dean was dragged from Sam's arms. Up, up, up went Dean. Pinned to the ceiling. And Dean was bleeding. Around him, the house began to burn. Flames engulfed his brothers body, and Sam, paralyzed with fear, couldn't move, just watched as his big brother burned. The flames didn't hurt Sam though. But they sure hurt Dean. Dean was dying. But he tried to pretend he wasn't and he smiled bravely at Sam. "It's gonna be all right, Sammy," promised Dean, writhing in pain on the ceiling. "I'm here. You're gonna be all right."

Sam's tears were renewed as the nightmare flooded back to him and he called out for Dean, who was already sitting next to him before Sam had finished yelling Just Dean, no monsters, no fire. Just Dean.

Sam touched Dean's hand softly, just to make sure. He couldn't be to safe. He had to make sure. There could be all kinds of monsters. Ones that could look like Dean. Dean took his other hand and wiped Sam's tears away.

"You okay, Sammy?" he asked.

"I'm scared Dean," he cried. He gripped Dean's thumb. Dean's really thumb. Solid. Warm.

"Of what?" asked Dean.

But Sam didn't answer. Sam was scared of the monsters, but every time Sam said "monsters," Dean threw a tantrum. Like he was angry with Sam for saying so. "Don't be mad, Dean," Sam begged. "Promise."

"I won't," he promised.

"I'm scared of the monsters," whispered Sam, and he felt Dean's hand go all tight. Sam looked up at him. "You're mad."

Dean frowned, then laughed. "No, Sammy," said Dean. "I'm not mad. Promise," he said. "It's all right to be afraid of the monsters, Sammy," he added. "But you just gotta promise me you'll fight back if they come for you." Sam nodded. "And I'll come, Sammy, I promise. I'll come to save you, but you have to hang on." Sam nodded again.

He looked up Dean, so brave, so gentle , so tough, and his lip quivered, remembering broken, defeated, dying Dean from his dream, who still promised Sam that he'd be all right.

"You okay, Sammy?" asked Dean anxiously.

"It killed you," he sniffed. Dean didn't cry. Sam had never seen Dean cry. If Dean didn't cry and that made him brave, then Sam wouldn't cry either. "On the ceiling. You were on the ceiling, and there was a fire."

The corners of Dean's mouth twitched. He didn't say anything, and his quietness scared Sam more than if Dean had been shouting. Or even crying.

"I made you mad," said Sam guiltily.

"N-no, Sammy," stammered Dean. He let go of Sam's hands and pulled him onto his lap, stroking Sam's hair gently. "You didn't. Not you."

And Dean, as Sam knew he only did when he was beside himself with terror, started humming. Some song Sam didn't know the name to, but they'd both heard a thousand times.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I didn't even realize how short this chapter was. Whatever. Short and to the point, with a little sympathy for Papa Winchester thrown in. Longer chapter (with a sick Sammy) whenever I get around to it. The ghosts are cheesy, and I almost didn't do them, but then I thought, "hey, the show has been more cheesy than this!" so I did it anyway. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own Supernatural. Or John.  
**

**Left Alone**

John was leafing through old police reports, death certificates, and newspaper articles, desperate to find something about those two little boys. He'd been at it for hours, and so far he'd found a great big steaming pile of nothing. He was almost through all of the papers, and if he didn't physically have a stack of them in front of him, he'd have given it up for lost.

Luckily, he did physically have a stack of papers in front of him, and John wasn't one for giving up on a hunt. Finally, John found something that fit.

The address was right at least.

Two boys, twelve and seven, were found dead in that house in 1935. No investigation, it seemed. They starved to death in that house. Their only caregiver, single father Charlie Mason, 39, was found dead two days later. Alcohol poisoning.

The boys were called Daniel and Andrew. Twelve and seven. Abandoned, alone. Abandoned. And they starved to death.

It made sense. How many single fathers were there in the world that had to leave their kids alone for one reason or another? All of the victims so far had been male, between 35 and 50, single fathers who had left their two boys.

And John fell right into that category. Good. He had a feeling that he might. He had a feeling that they wouldn't come out unless he fit.

And it explained the deaths. Heart failure, my ass, John scoffed. Off the record, way, way, _way _off the record, they said it was malnutrition. Of people they'd known, and were perfectly healthy the day before.

The boys were buried on the property. Of course, they were. Some rich aunt who didn't keep in touch after he sister died paid for it, but no one attended the service. Just another tragedy in a great string of failures. Sad, but no unheard of.

Great. Why shouldn't they be? Why couldn't the job be easy, just this once? Naturally, they'd be at the house. John would go back though, to the house with the little boys who wanted to bring justice to fathers who abandoned their boys. And they would ambush him and he'd almost die, but he'd escape and burn their bones, and go home to his own boys, who'd be alive. And healthy, and happy to see him. And Dean would be relieved to see him alive.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimers: General disclaimer, disclaiming all rights to Supernatural, Sam's health, and Dean's character. General disclaimer about being inspired by you wonderful people who write a million and one times better than I do, and probably unintentionally stealing your work, as opposed intentionally stealing Supernatural and then returning it only slightly damaged. More specific disclaimer goes out to someone who I cannot remember who to credit (and as a result I feel like a lying, stealing bitch) but would love to, because it is their doing that Sam reads Dean "Green Eggs and Ham." Directly influenced by their writing. Can give credit, but can't remember who. It was initially between "Green Eggs and Ham," and "Go Dogs Go," though, because those are two books from when I was four that I can recite almost cover to cover.  
**

Sam got sick on the third day John was away. He started coughing that night, and while he didn't wake up again after Dean put him to bed for the third time that night, he didn't sleep well. The nightmares went in and out and even when he wasn't dreaming, Sam tossed uncomfortably all night.

Once Sam was coughing, that was it for Dean. Already uneasy about sleeping while he had to look after Sam, Dean wasn't able to sleep a wink while Sam was uncomfortable.

When Sam woke up that morning and looked at Dean dolefully, Dean was almost positive he had a fever. He didn't even need to check. Sam was pale and shivering and his eyes were glazed. A thin film of sweat was covering his forehead. Dean was sitting with his back turned to the beds, contemplating calling Bobby.

"Dean," moaned Sam. Dean stood up and smiled at his brother.

"Hey, Sammy," he said. "How ya feeling?"

"I'm cold, Dean," he said.

"Come here," Dean instructed. Sam stepped forward and Dean placed his hand on Sammy's forehead. It was warm to Dean's touch and Sam flinched.

"Your hand cold, Dean," he protested, pulling away.

"You have a fever, Sammy," Dean told him, catching his hand before he got too far. "Come on, I think I have something that'll make you better."

He took Sam's hand and led him over to the sink. Dean, still eight and not yet tall enough to reach the cabinet over the sink, climbed up onto the counter and pulled out the children's Tylenol. He squinted at the bottle carefully, eyeing Sam, trying to figure about how much he weighed.

He shrugged and hopped down and poured a little into the little medicine cup.

"Learn to swallow pill soon, Sammy," he said as Sam took the medicine and handed the cup back to Dean. "You hungry?" Sammy shook is head ,but Dean smiled. "I'll make you something anyway." He crawled back up on the counter, replaced the medicine and scooted along the top until he found a can of something his sick baby brother would eat. Sam watched Dean carefully and protested as Dean pulled the can out.

"I change my mind," he said. "I is hungry."

Dean looked at him expectantly. "This isn't okay?" he asked, putting it back without even waiting for the answer. "And since when do you even know what kind of soup's in there anyways?"

"There's a tomato on the front, Dean," said Sam matter-of-factly. "Plus, I can read, Dean."

Dean smiled down at him. "Yeah?" he said, even though he was completely aware Sam could read better than most kids his age. He sort of used it as bragging rights at school. "You should show me sometime."

Sam sneezed and rubbed his eyes. "Okay," he agreed. "Now."

"Gotta get you lunch first, Sammy," said Dean, looking at the clock. Almost noon. "You're sick, dude."

But Sam just smiled, his mood changing so quickly, Dean though maybe he'd been imagining his brother's illness. He still didn't look good though, and Dean, whose sole concern had been looking after Sammy since Mom had died, knew that Sam had a half-hour before his temperate skyrocketed, regardless of the medicine in him.

A half an hour before he'd refuse to eat. And Dean wasn't going to force him if he swore he wasn't hungry, but If Sam didn't eat now, he probably would be too sick by dinner time to eat. And the Sam would wake him in the middle of the night, complaining that he was hungry.

Or worse, he wouldn't.

Either way, it was best that Sam had lunch within the hour.

"What do you want?" asked Dean. But Sam decided now was a good time to be stubborn and he set his little jaw and pursed his lips. He looked up at Dean with his puppy dog eyes. "Sam," he insisted.

"Read with me," begged Sam. And he looked into Dean's eyes and resistance became futile. Dean vaguely wondered if Sam did it on purpose, brainwashing his victims by looking so pathetic.

"Fine," said Dean. Sam smiled and produced a picture book out of seemingly nowhere. _Green Eggs and Ham_, the only book Sam could read cover to cover, probably because it had his name in it some many times.

"I-am-Sam," read Sam, sitting down, looking up at Dean proudly. Dean smiled and showed Sam a can of something without really knowing what it was, and Sam beamed. "Sam-I-am."

"Do you want it, or not?" Dean asked impatiently.

"Yeah," he said. "That one."

Relieved that Sam had some interest in food before he crashed, Dean opened the can, poured it in the bowl, and popped it in the microwave, because if there was one thing Dean was good at, it was microwaving food.

Dean sat down at the table across from Sam, who hadn't stopped reading while Dean had started the microwave. Now, he looked up at Dean and pushed the book towards him. Dean sighed and picked up the book. "Do you like them in a box?" read Dean right where Sam had left off. Sam jumped up at once and climbed onto Dean's lap. He read with Dean in time and pointed at the pictures as if Dean hadn't seen them. And Dean smiled at each one like it was a masterpiece.

By the time they reached the end of the book, Sam's fever was back, and he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. The microwave had stopped almost twenty-five minutes ago (leave it to Sammy to take a half-hour to read a picture book), but Dean hadn't been able to get up because of the brother on his lap. Sam had taken Dean's hand some time ago and Dean could feel his temperature climbing. Dean wished he knew why the Tylenol seemed to wear off much quicker than it should, and Dean contemplated (again) to see if he knew, or at least if he should give Sammy some more.

Dean looked down at Sam. He looked up blearily. "You has to finish it," he said.

Dean sighed. "Thank you, thank you, Sam I Am," he said gently, closing the book with a snap. Sam smiled weakly. "You're worse," said Dean. Sam didn't answer. "Think you could eat something?" Sam shook his head. "Okay," said Dean, and he stood up in one fluid motion with Sam in his arms and carried him back bed. Sam curled up and started to shiver. Dean tucked him in and gauged his brother's temperature again, this time with a soft kiss on the forehead. "You call if you need something, Sam," he instructed severely. "I'll just be over there."

But Sam didn't answer. To Dean's relief, Sam had already fallen back to sleep. Or, at least, he was settling in enough not to answer.

Dean went back to the kitchen area. It was almost two o'clock by now, and Dean was hungry. He thought about being lazy and eating Sam's soup, because it was unlikely that he'd want it when he woke up anyway, but he took it out of the microwave and covered it instead.

Sighing, Dean made himself a sandwich. He positioned himself at the table, oddly uninterested in his lunch, watching Sammy sleep.

**A/N: With Sam burning off the medicine really quickly, I'm just going to chalk it up to demon blood, and as he gets older, it doesn't work the same, because he's taken adult strength and perscription meds. Easy way out, but whatever.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I had all sort of intelligent things to say. Like, yesterday, I got Sam sick, and today, I'm sick. I think it's definitely karma. What I do to John in this chapter...I hope karma doesn't need to reflect everything a writer publishes... ****  
**

**This is the second to last chapter, so to the people who gave this a chance in the first place, you're amazing. To anyone who's reading this now, you're doubly amazing. And you're just beyond amazing if you read the next chapter. (And review.)  
**

**If you don't care, skip everything in bold.  
**

**About John: I can understand why you wouldn't love John, because of what he did to his boys growing up, especially Dean, but I just can't find it in my to hate him. Obviously, he moved them around so much, and trained them like warriors because he loved them and wanted them to be prepared for anything, and while maybe it wasn't the right thing to do, he did it because he couldn't stand the thought of his boys not being able to protect themselves. I think sometimes, John realizes what he's doing, and he knows it isn't what he should be doing. Except, because he's a Winchester and has to be difficult and stubborn, he likes his idea better, and doesn't do a thing to change his sons' lives. You probably already knew all this though, didn't you?**

**About Dean: I have this theory about Dean, and because I hate obnoxiously long author's notes, I think I'll write it here, that he grew up to a point where he could take care of Sam. Meaning that, at four, he had the maturity of a mature sixteen-year-old. And then, when he turned sixteen, he just didn't grow up after that, because he never had a chance to be a kid when he was a kid, so he'll make up for it now. Of course, I have a younger brother who I'm pretty sure will just act like he's twelve for the rest of his life, so what do I know?  
**

**Disclaimer: John Winchester are not mine. However, I'm 99% positive Daniel and Andrew Mason are.  
**

**Left Alone **

John parked outside the run-down house for what he hoped would be the last time that week. He fought the urge to turn back, leave this job to someone else. Someone the ghosts wouldn't go after until the bones were already burning.

But hunters don't turn back. You pick up a job, you finish it, and you don't leave others to pick up the pieces. That is, if you needed anything down the road. A favor, an extra set of eyes, a partner, even a babysitter, hunters were willing to lend a hand to each other, but only if they thought you could help them when the time came.

Paranoid jackasses.

John snorted. The doors squeaked slightly when he opened them, and he grabbed his gear out of the trunk. Rock salt, lighter fluid, matches, gun, flashlight, shovel, everything one needed his typical ghost-hunt.

He pulled out his gun and slung his duffel bag onto his back. He took a deep breath and he started on his hunt.

He though about going around, straight to the back where he knew the boys were buried, but a giant brick wall had been put up around the property. Too high for John to climb.

So, he pushed the front door, which was barely hanging on by its hinges and stepped inside, the floor boards groaning in protest, dust clouds forming when he took a step. John cocked his gun nervously, and continues through the house, searching for a door to the backyard.

He'd been there for about fifteen minutes and even though he hadn't found the door (which troubled him greatly, as the house wasn't that big) there had been no sign of the boys. Maybe, thought John, allowing himself to hope just a little, he'd been lucky this time.

But John was a Winchester, a family with bad luck since the beginning of time (although he thought it was a pretty safe bet that none of them had luck so bad as his) and he had married a Campbell, who had worse luck than the Winchesters, like all hunters do. (John still could help but laugh a little when he thought of his Mary fighting ghosts all her life.)

John's luck ran out just as he found the backdoor. One of the ghost boys appeared in front of him, blocking his path. The younger one, John guessed, Andrew, his name had been. He raised his gun just as the ghost called out to his brother.

"Danny! He's home!" he called, and his voice was so happy, so relieved at the sight of John, that John almost felt bad for wanting to shoot him. He was only seven after all, even if he was "only seven" for the rest of time.

But Daniel appeared next to him. He frowned at John and then at his brother. "He's never coming home, Andrew," he said coldly. "He left us," said Daniel, stepping toward John. "He didn't care."

And John shot without a second thought. Daniel disappeared and Andrew's image flickered and followed him. But John couldn't shake the image of pure terror that had crossed his face as John shot his brother, seemingly mercilessly.

Without wasting another though, John kicked open the door and cast his light over the entire yard. Which was stupidly big. And John couldn't see a damn thing from where he was standing.

John stepped into the yard. The grass, brown and hard, crunched under his feet. John started to scour every inch of the back, convincing himself he'd dig up the whole yard if he had to.

Finally, he found the grave, only after almost resolving to take his shovel into the dirt. There was just one headstone, marked, "Daniel And Andrew Mason, March 18, 1922 – January 24, 1935; November 2, 1928 – January 24, 1935."

John pulled out his shovel and started to dig, once again appreciating how damn hard it was, and how unsatisfying-ly long it took to dig up a damn grave. And of course, it was dangerous to dig up the grave of the boys who currently were out for you on their own hunting property with no one to watch your back. John felt instantly grateful that Sam and Dean had each other.

Of course, it was at that moment that the ghosts appeared. Like the mention of his boys' names summoned them. Just as John thought he found the wooden box that held one of the bodies.

"Daddy," cried the little one, and John tried his best to ignore him, pounding his shovel through the rotting wood. "Daddy, how could you leave us?"

The older one laid a hand on Andrew's should. "He left us," he said simply. "Because he doesn't love us."

John grabbed his duffel and ripped it open. Ignoring the boys standing above ground looking down at him, he grabbed the salt and poured it over the corpse.

Daniel flickered down into the hole with John. "Take a look," he whispered. "Look what you did to us."

Suddenly, John felt his knees give out beneath him and he fell to the ground. John had felt helpless before, but never had he felt so weak. Like his body was dying, every muscle was working overtime just keep him going. His vision blurred, but he was near enough to his duffel to grab the lighter fluid and poured it over the bones, when John gasped.

It had nothing to do with the sudden fatigue the spirit had put over him. His heart ached at the sight of it.

Two bodies, two skeletons, rather, of children, twelve and seven, together in one coffin. Daniel and Andrew Mason.

"When you left," said Daniel coldly. "I had to take care of him. And I couldn't even do that."

Sports appeared before John's eyes, and even as he slowly slipped from consciousness he thought of Dean taking care of Sam, like it was his job. Even when they were looked after, even when John was home, Dean's sole concern was Sam, like it had somehow ingrained itself into his head the moment John handed Sam to him during the fire four years ago. And the more they grew, the more they grew together. Dean was only eight, but he learned to change Sam's diapers within six months after the fire, fed Sam since he'd been six months old, and comforted him when he woke from nightmares. Dean only had the body of an eight-year-old, but really, John supposed that Dean hadn't been a kid in nearly four years. And he wouldn't be a kid ever. Not as long as he had Sammy to look after.

John realized it was his fault. Because hunting, these past four years, had become his obsession. He knew his kids were just that, kids. But John couldn't bear the thought of losing his boys his boys, and so he trained them to be soldiers, and even now he realized he wasn't fulfilling his role as caregiver properly. That role, unfortunately, fell to Dean, who was left with very few people to take care of him.

John knew that he was going to die here. He just felt so _tired_ and weak. He hoped that when he was gone, Sam would return the favor and take care of Dean. Maybe his boys would be all right without him. There was Bobby, who would watch them, and they could take care car of each other. That's what brothers were for, after all.

But John, even after just four years, was an expert hunter and a thorough hunter. So even if it killed him, John was going to finish the job. He groped around blindly for his gun and shot it without looking. He grabbed his matches in the few seconds of relief the ghost's absence granted him and lit the whole damn box with shaking fingers. He didn't even have the strength to climb out of the hole he was about to set on fire, ready to go with the bones.

Just before he could drop it though (as hunters –even dying hunters, apparently –liked to hold burning matches dramatically a few seconds) the boys reappeared. Daniel took him by his shirt collar and dragged him out of the grave and John, though he'd never admit it, was saved by pure luck. When he was pulled forcefully from the hole in the ground, he was so surprised he dropped the whole damn box.

Andrew's image started to shimmer, and he screamed. Daniel's eyes widened at the sight of his brother bursting into flames. "You killed him," Daniel whimpered as the tip of his head erupted. "I have to protect him." The boy disappeared calling his brother's name, and John vaguely wondered if he died doing the same.

But the job was over, and John regained his breath, lying flat on the dead grass next to a burning hole in the ground.

**More obnoxious A/N: Yes, I did purposely make Daniel as much like Dean as possible, and yes, I did their date of births and deaths like that on purpose. You could obviously pick up on that, but I just kind of like the way it looks in writing.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hooray, last chapter. Like two times longer than any of the other chapters so far (and still miserably short), but I've finally done what I meant to. The line at the end of In My Time of Dying, where John talked about Dean being obnoxiously selfless as a kid, and comforting John when he came home from a hunt, yeah, that line inspired this whole thing.**

**Many thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, alerted, etc. Special thanks to UberAwesome, who is my real-life friend, who read first, on the bus, and said she would hunt me down if I didn't put it up, which was actually extremely encouraging. Thank you to people who reviewed continuously, you're support does not go to waste.  
**

**Disclaimer: This is the part where I return the characters, all nice, neat, and not too badly damaged to their home, all wrapped up.  
**

**Left Alone  
**

As predicted, Sam woke up in the middle of the night. Granted, he'd woken up every hour or so, always complaining about something, and around six, Dean had decided Sam was too warm to be fighting the fever on his own, and gave him another dose of medicine, hoping it'd bring his temperature down. Even so, with Sam complaining about it being too hot, or too cold, or being thirsty, or having a headache, or he couldn't breathe because his nose was too plugged, he never complained that he was hungry.

Not until two in the freakin' morning, naturally.

Because Sam Winchester was the definition of pain-in-the-ass-little-brother.

At two am, Sam woke up and turned over on his side to look at Dean, who had fallen asleep (because taking care of feverish toddlers was a pain in the ass and tiring as hell). His head was still throbbing and the decongestant Dean had given him had worn off. But his had gone down, and he hadn't had anything to eat all day, no matter how much his brother insisted.

He pouted and scrambled out of bed to wake Dean. His legs felt kind of wobbly, but he still climbed onto Dean's bed in order to shake him awake.

"Sammy?" asked Dean groggily, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"I'm hungry, Dean," he said.

"Course you are," he muttered, feeling Sam's forehead. It was cooler than it had been all day. "Didn't I tell you this would happen?"

"I guess," muttered Sam. "But I _wasn't_ then, Dean."

Dean flicked on the lamp and squinted at the clock. He groaned. "It's two o'clock in the freakin' morning, Sam," he grumbled, flopping back down on his pillows. At two in the morning, Dean would never voluntarily get out of bed. The hunger of his baby brother fell under "voluntarily" in Dean's book. "If you can wait," he said to his pillows. "Then I'll make you breakfast. If not," he said rolling over, looking at his sick brother. "You're not helpless, Sammy. Do it yourself. Your soup is in the fridge."

Sam stood up. "Okay," he pouted. "But I don't _want _ soup, Dean."

Dean groaned and swung his legs out of bed. "Sam, I swear," he growled as much as he could in his eight-year-old voice. "If you want spaghettio's…"

Maybe it was the fever, or the time, or he knew Dean would never really hurt him, but Sam giggled. "No," he said. "Make me breakfast," he pleaded. "I'm hungry."

"Do it yourself, bitch," said Dean, getting all the way out of bed, following Sam into the kitchenette.

"Jerk," said Sam. "Dad said you're not supposed to call me a bitch."

Dean shrugged. He stood there as Sam popped some bread into the toaster and waited silently for it to pop.

Sam was sitting at the table, gnawing on his toast, Dean watching him protectively when the door rattled. Sam and Dean jumped, but Sam relaxed once the noise had passed. Dan stayed tense, trying not to look as scared as he felt for Sam's sake. He turned, miraculous not taking his eyes off Sam, to get the gun.

Sam frowned, but not at the sight of the gun. Maybe he didn't know what hid in the dark, but he knew the rules. When something tried to get in, Dean would shoot it, no questions asked until after the thing was killed. And even at eight, Dean was a pretty fantastic shot.

But it didn't mean Sam _liked _it when Dean got the gun out. Dean only touched it when Dad took him shooting or when he was scared. And the only reason Dean would be scared was if there was something to be afraid of. Something that could hurt them.

"Dean?" he asked.

"Everything's okay, Sammy," Dean assured him.

"Who's at the door?" asked Sam.

Dean looked down at Sam and then back at the door. "Go back to bed, Sam," he ordered. But Sam shook his head. "Now," he growled.

"No," he said stubbornly, but he got up and stood behind Dean.

"Not so close, Sammy," he mumbled, not minding that Sam totally had no concept of personal space. His hand on Dean's sleeve, a pesky little reminder of his brother's presence, was comforting.

The door opened, and Dean was lucky he was a little slow. John stumbled through the door and Dean put to gun down and smiled, relieved.

"Gonna shoot me, Dean?" asked John with a crooked smile.

Dean laughed. "No, sir," he answered. "Not you."

John plopped himself down at the table and surveyed his boys. For the first time in his life, Sam didn't feel like he was piece of machinery being inspected.

"Dad?" asked Sam cautiously.

"Sammy?" asked John right back. "What are you doing up?"

Sam shrugged and walked over to John a little nervously. John picked Sam up and put him in his lap. "Did Dean take good care of you, Sammy?"

"Yes, sir," he answered. "Dean even read to me." John smiled.

"Well, that was good of him," said John softly. "You've got a good big brother, Sammy, don't you forget it."

The corner of Dean's mouth twitched from the corner where he was watching his rarely gentle father holding his brother tenderly.

"I can't," answered Sam. "Dean won't let me."

John laughed, and it was a real laugh. The kind Dean only ever heard from Sam. "No, I wouldn't think so," he chuckled ruffling Sam's hair gently. He smiled at Dean and kissed Sam's forehead. John frowned. "You're a little warm, Sammy," he said sternly. "Why are you up?"

Sam looked at Dean sheepishly. "I'll got to bed, Dad," he said getting up, walking back to bed. Dean followed behind Sam. John called Dean's name, but Dean just turned back and told John he'd only be minute, if he needed to talk to him.

John shook his head. "Never mind," he said. "It's late. Got to bed, boys."

Dean nodded. He and Sam climbed back into their respective beds. Sam curled up and squirmed around for a little while until he finally settled on his back. Dean laid on his side to watch Sam until he fell asleep, reluctantly releasing his position as Sam's caregiver now that John was home.

"Dean?" asked Sam. "Dad's back now. We gonna go?"

"I don't know, Sam," answered Dean. "Dad just got home. I'm sure he hasn't made up his mind yet."

"We will move?" asked Sam.

"Eventually."

"But, Dean," said Sam, sitting up. "I don't wanna."

"Yeah, Sam?" said Dean angrily. "Too bad!" Dean sat up too, fuming. He was angry , he wanted to punch something. He couldn't punch Sam though, and yelling was out of the question, because he didn't want John to overhear them. "No one gives a rat's ass about what you want, Sam."

Sam pouted at Dean, like he couldn't believe what Dean had just said to him. But Dean was so angry, he didn't even notice how not true what he said was.

"Life isn't fair, Sam," he said sternly . "You don't get to do everything you want. What dad says goes."

"Why?" asked Sam.

"Because he's Dad," answered Dean. "He just knows what has to happen. And you don't have to like, but you to pretend you do and come with us."

Sam pouted some more. "I still don't like it," he said stubbornly, laying back down.

Dean swung his legs out of bed. "Sammy?" he asked, suddenly aware he had let his anger get the best of him. "Sam, I'm sorry." He laid a hand on Sam's shoulder, but he cringed away from Dean's touch. "Really, Sam. I…didn't mean it." He cleared his throat. "I care about you, Sam. I care about what you want, and so does Dad, but Sammy it's dangerous to say in one place for too long."

"I forgive you, Dean," mumbled Sam. "And I'm sorry. I hurt our feelings. And I made you mad. I didn't want to. I did it on accident."

Dean smiled. "You're such a girl, Sammy," muttered Dean playfully. "Goodnight."

"Night, Dean."

Dean woke back up about an hour later. He looked over at Sam, who looked so small in that bed all by himself, but he was sleeping peacefully nonetheless He looked around for John, but he wasn't in the immediate vicinity, so Dean assumed he was sleeping on the couch.

Dean didn't really know what possessed him to do so, but he got up and went to check on John. Maybe because Dean wanted to make sure he was really there, not eaten up by some monster. Or maybe it was because at eight, Dean had the distinct ability to take care of people. And maybe Dean wasn't great with words or feelings, but he knew just how comforting a soft touch could be.

Because when Dean looked at his father, he looked like he needed to be told that everything would be all right. His head was in his hands, deep purple bags sagging below his eyes. His forehead was creased in deep though, and not one he necessarily wanted to dwell on.

"Dad," whispered Dean uncertainly. "John lifted his head and smiled weakly at Dean.

"Come here, Dean," said John. Dean approached John cautiously. But he sat without hesitation on his father's lap.

"Dad?" asked Dean. "You're okay?"

"Yeah, Dean," answered John. Dean approached John cautiously. "I'm good." Dean nodded. "Just worried. It's a dangerous job." Dean didn't say anything. "I'm worried, one day I won't make it back."

"Don't," said Dean simply. "You'll make it back, because you're the best hunter in the world."

John laughed gratefully. "But, Dean," he said seriously. "You'll take care of Sam if I don't? And yourself, won't you?"

"Yeah, Dad," answered Dean. "I'll look after Sam."

"Good boy," said John. Then the two soldiers were silent. John couldn't stop thinking about those poor boys' spirits he'd destroyed. Those poor boys. John wasn't a softie, and he certainly never let anyone know how he was feeling, but he was in charge of his own boys, or and they needed him. And those boys, or ghosts, or whatever, would kill him because he would take off for days at the a time, because the alternative meant taking them along. John heaved a heavy sigh.

Dean looked up at him. John looked tired and frazzled and a little like he had seen a ghost, which Dean knew he had. Dean had never seen a ghost, but he knew John fought them. And in a few years, Dean would fight them too. Dean couldn't wait until he was big enough to go hunting with John and Bobby, but if a ghost could make John, the bravest man Dean knew, look like that, then Dean didn't want to think about the thing that killed his mother, But Dad would be okay, though Dean, because he's always okay.

John looked down at Dean, like he didn't even see him. "They were just kids," he muttered softly. "They were kids, and they were scared. And angry."

Dean frowned. "It's okay, Dad," he said, and he put his hand on John's shoulder. "It's all right." John smiled sadly, and for the first time in four years, John picked Dean up and tucked him in. "It's all right, Dad," he said one more time. "Me and Sammy are here."


End file.
